


The Pull-Up Crisis

by SparksOfDesire



Series: Little!John [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accepting Greg Lestrade, Bars and Pubs, Breakfast, Caretaker!Sherlock, Caring Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Good Guy Greg Lestrade, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Idiots in Love, Insecure John, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Insecurity, Little Headspace, Loving Sherlock, M/M, Mentions of drug withdrawal, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Canon Compliant, Parental Lestrade, Pet Names, Praise, Protective Greg Lestrade, Stuffed Toys, Talking about wetting/accidents, Teddy Bears, coming to terms with stuff, daddy!sherlock, little!john, mild drinking, pull-ups, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparksOfDesire/pseuds/SparksOfDesire
Summary: John and Sherlock still try to navigate their new age-play dynamic.Things aren't always easy; especially when it comes to accepting a side of yourself you're embarrassed about.Luckily, John has amazing people in his life to help him work through it.***Don't like age-play, don't read; no hard feelings!





	1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock**

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t one easily surprised. It came with the gift of deduction, that he got to the core of every situation fairly quickly, his acquaintances an open book providing him with all the answers he possibly needed. Emotions had always puzzled him to some extent, but over the years spent with people like Lestrade or John, who had a high emotional intuition bestowed upon them, he had considerably improved in this area.

 

His relationship with John, however, was filled with surprises; surprises that made him question the improvement in the emotional department he had been so very proud of.

There were facts he knew about John; simple facts, like his birthday or his profession, advanced facts, like personal preferences about a various range of topics, and the complex facts, which lead to understanding John Watson as a person on a deeper and more profound level.

It were facts of the last nature that were baffling him, as they unfolded right before his very eyes. You see, John Watson was by no means an easy person. The war had taken its toll on his mental stability and self-esteem, the hunger for danger and action posed a contradiction within the otherwise gentle doctor, his self-image revolved around expectations he believed other people had in him. Most of all, he was eager to please, eager to be recognized by a figure of control, making him excellent in following orders; but he didn’t trust others enough with himself, taking the control right back. Additionally, John was caring by nature; not used to showing vulnerability of any kind; but he was also sensitive and sweet and tempter-driven; a peculiar combination altogether. One would best describe John Watson as complicated, for lack of a better word.

Which was precisely the reason why Sherlock loved him madly and was infuriated with him at the very same time.

 

A simple fact about Sherlock Holmes was that he loved being right.

Deductions about John usually didn’t lead to this favored outcome. At the beginning of their relationship, Sherlock had formed certain beliefs about the doctor that transcribed themselves into every aspect of said relationship.

When they turned from flat mates/work partner/ friends to boyfriends and lovers, Sherlock had predicted a major crisis in one way or another. John- being so concerned with his impression on others- had clung to his heterosexuality as a form of independence from Sherlock, since they had been glued to the hip (him seen as Sherlock’s inferior side-kick) from the very first day. When it didn’t come in the privacy of their living quarters, Sherlock suspected it would occur upon their first public outing as a romantic couple, on the day Lestrade had remarked that they were much cozier than usual. Sherlock had readied himself for solid denial or at least some token embarrassment; but John had just pulled him in by the waist and declared that they “might as well make it official right away.”

With the romantic crisis nowhere in sight, Sherlock shifted his focus to the sexual nature of their relationship. John hadn’t had a male partner before, so the detective had readied himself for uneasiness whenever their kisses turned rougher and the touches bolder. He had been sick with nerves the day he had first gotten naked in front of John, deeming this the crucial moment of the sexuality crisis he thought he would witness. It was one thing feeling an erection vaguely through the confidents of clothes, but another one entirely to have it stare you in the face- figuratively speaking. John, however, unaware of his partner’s worries, did sink to his knees and put his mouth to better use than discussing changed sexual preferences.

In short, no crisis at all; and Sherlock was a tiny bit disappointed by that. Only because it meant that he had been wrong, obviously.

 

When their relationship dynamics had shifted on yet another level- a sweet, soft, fragile level- Sherlock had been prepared for the very worst. The first time John had admitted to Sherlock that he liked to be taken care of sometimes, and that during those times he felt different from his adult mindset; that he felt little (as Sherlock now knew it was called, since he had busied himself with extensive research over the last couple of weeks), the doctor had been struggling to acknowledge those feelings. Sherlock, admittedly, was struggling himself. Being caring was a character trait that didn’t come easy to his calculating nature, even in those moments when he let himself fall into the situation with effortless ease, a small shimmer of doubt remained that he was utterly horrible at this, that he wasn’t providing the experience John craved and deserved.

The crisis didn’t occur for the first few times that they settled into their new dynamic. Right after that evening of acknowledgement, John did make an appointment with his therapist. Sherlock regarded it as a small identity break-down but was pleasantly surprised when John returned from the visit in high spirits. Apparently, whatever had been discussed came a long way in easing the doctor’s most prominent anxieties about the matter.

Granted, they were only slowly inching towards the big unknown, with more frequent reading sessions or cuddling when watching movies. John, for the most part shy but openly affectionate, used the new title more seldom than Sherlock would have liked- but he didn’t dare push him, for he himself didn’t know the direction he would be pushing towards.

Still, it was going better than expected. It was going great, even. Sherlock found that these moments became something that he craved, too, as a calming balm on his roaring mind- a moment of peace, and affection, and fondness in their otherwise fast-paced lives.

 

However, the peace didn’t last. A small crisis of some sort was bound to happen, after all (This time, Sherlock was _sure_ of it!)

All things considered, it was a silly affair to have a crisis over (it could have been so much worse).

Still; when John stormed off enraged, Sherlock was left home alone to wonder, whether he not only was a bad Daddy, but a bad boyfriend, as well.

It wasn’t often that Sherlock Holmes found himself in the position that he wished he had been wrong.

**John**

John Watson was on a mission to get completely and thoroughly shit-faced. No way to sugar-coat it. John was a man with a plan. A plan to get obscenely drunk.

 It was a cold night and the doctor buried his hands deeper into his coat pockets as he left the semi-secluded space of the tube station, scolding at Sherlock and the world in general. He had left his phone at the flat on purpose, so Sherlock wouldn’t be able to contact him even if he tried- which, alright, was a little bit childish, but John allowed himself some childishness in this peculiar situation.

He was on his way to the pub he knew Greg regularly visited on a Thursday evening like today, in the hopes to find his friend there. He was itching to complain about Sherlock, his temper still bubbling in his veins in shame and anger, still vividly remembering the moment when-

He stopped abruptly and blushed a little.

Well.

He wouldn’t be able to tell Greg _that_.

There was no way in hell that he’d tell his mate that he and Sherlock were… _doing that_. Age-play, Ella had called it. John didn’t really like the term, feeling like it added a sense of finality and seriousness to it. He preferred the blurry lines they were currently skirting around whenever they were… _like that_ ; enjoyed the way his head got a little bit fuzzy, and how Sherlock showered him in attention, and how he could call Sherlock…. _That_ if he wanted to. There was no need to slap a label onto it. A definition.

 

There was no need to push it in the certain direction of…

John couldn’t even bring himself to think it; Ella had explained to him how wide the scope of age-play could reach, and he had been humiliated just hearing about it. It wasn’t… _like that_ for him.  He just liked soft things and feeling small and not worrying for a few hours. He wasn’t … _that_.

Perhaps, this was precisely the reason why the discovery from only minutes prior had stung so much. Why it had made him feel like he had been punched in the gut, why he was still feeling sick with anxiety.

 

**~Flashback~**

A few weeks before, Sherlock had started to buy things especially for these moments when John was feeling little (another terminology he had learned from Ella). Nothing big or anything- more storybooks, and sweets, and coloring books with crayons (John still remembered that afternoon vividly; it was the first time that this between them wouldn’t have to be a sole comfort thing, that it could be a fun thing, too)- just small niceties; things he didn’t think Sherlock had a sense for.

The evening had started out so well. He actually had been pretty damn proud of himself. Ella had encouraged him to see his little side as a part of his character, and not as a completely different persona. He came home from the surgery, hearing Sherlock arguing on the phone (with Mycroft, if the level of annoyance in his partner’s voice was anything to go by), when he saw something he knew immediately was meant as a present for little John.

The teddy’s fur had the rich color of honey and was soft to the touch, completed with big paws and round button eyes. It was resting atop of some grocery bags (every now and again, Sherlock did the shopping now, another thing John would have never thought possible) in a slightly crooked angle. Without much thought, John made a bee-line to pick it up. He was smiling like an idiot but allowed himself the spark of excitement that bubbled in his veins upon seeing the toy.

It was a silly little thing.

But it made him very very happy.

He was teaching himself to appreciate his little side even when he was big, so he grabbed the teddy, to take a closer look.

 

He knocked the grocery bag over completely by accident. He cursed quietly- the bear still tight in his grip- and scrambled to pick up the contents of the bag. He could hear Sherlock wrapping up the call in the other room and doubled his efforts, embarrassed by his unusual clumsiness.

The second to last item caught his attention.

At first, he didn’t even know what it was. He stopped, to read the label.

Realization came like a slap in the face.

 

Sherlock chose that exact moment to enter the scene. “Sorry for keeping the groceries unsupervised, Mycroft was being tedious and-“

Sherlock looked up from his phone. John lifted his head, staring at his partner as a hot, angry blush spread on his face and neck.

“Sherlock, what the fuck are those?” the doctor asked before his partner could get another word in- gesturing to the package innocently lying on the floor. He then realized he was still clutching the teddy and dropped it to the kitchen table, another wave of embarrassment hitting him hard.

 

The detective’s gaze rested on the offending item in question. He then pursed his lips, sighing a little. He opened his mouth, but John beat him right to it.

“Don’t fucking answer that- I know _what_ they are; I want to know how the hell you got the idea to go out and buy …” _Pull-ups_. “…these damn things!”

 

The detective eyed his partner calculating, but John turned away, denying Sherlock the possibility to deduce him. His palms were sweaty and itching and he felt light-headed, but not the good kind. He gripped the kitchen table for support, making the wood creak underneath his fingertips.

“I figured it would ease some of your worries regarding… nightly accidents when you’re little.” (which John had, he couldn’t deny that, but he would rather bite off his tongue than giving Sherlock the satisfaction of being right) “I- I apologize, I didn’t plan on bringing them up until you’re a bit more comfortable with-“

 

“I don’t need to be _diapered_ like a god-damn baby!”

The words tasted like bile in the doctor’s mouth, the whole extend of the humiliation catching up to him. Did Sherlock really think that he couldn’t control his body enough to…? He had had one accident, one tiny little accident and now Sherlock was fucking making fun of him for it; treating him like the baby that he wasn’t and that he _never wanted to be_ ; this was exactly what scared him about age-play, that he would be pushed over his comfort zone forced to give up the control he wasn’t ready to give up and- oh my God, he was overwhelmed and really, really angry.

 

Sherlock was shocked into silence by the sudden outburst. “John-“

“Stop, whatever you want to add to this- _I don’t care_ , alright? Not only are you trying to make me do something I don’t want to- no!- you did plan on waiting to bring it up until I’m vulnerable enough to not refuse?”

“We never talked about-“

“I said STOP! Just stop and- God! This is so fucked up- I _trusted_ you with this. And you…you just take it and… and humiliate me like…like…” He sucked in a sharp breath and blinked away the tears of frustration that were gathering his eyes.

Sherlock’s expression turned into something soft and concerned, and he made an effort to calm the distressed doctor.

“John, love, that’s not-“

“Fuck you, Sherlock,” John hissed between his teeth, unable to stay another second in this situation. He felt betrayed and misunderstood- Being little was his comfort thing, everybody kept telling him that it was alright that it was his comfort thing and now… now it was turning into something… and Sherlock was just…

A piercing headache shot through his skull as he gathered his jacket, willed his hands to stop shaking and left, without sparing another glare at his partner.

**~End of Flashback~**

 

He arrived at the pub and opened the door- warmth and the earthy smell of ale welcoming him. He located Greg quickly, at a booth near the bar, nursing a pint and watching a soccer game on one of the TVs hanging from the ceiling.

The knot of hurt within John’s stomach eased a little when he saw his friend.

He stopped by at the bar to get his own beer (wondered briefly of getting something stronger and ultimately decided against it, since he didn’t have dinner but was too worked-up to eat anything now) and slid into the booth opposite of Greg.

The DI didn’t expect company and thus greeted John warmly, which made the doctor feel calmer immediately. Screw Sherlock, screw age-play, screw pull-ups. He didn’t need _any_ of those things tonight.

 

He was through his second pint after an hour. Greg, still nursing his first one, eyed him warily.

“Might want to slow down a bit, yeah? I don’t want to have to carry you back to Baker Street and have your highness lecture us both on alcohol consumption.”

 

At the mention of Sherlock, John let out a deep sigh. Their previous conversation had circled around work and the game and John had almost forgot the troubles at home (the beer was helping, too). While his original plan had been to rant about Sherlock’s behavior, he now preferred to ignore it in favor of pretending everything was fine.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise, I see?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“None of that. Spill. You’re not getting drunk over nothing, alcoholism doesn’t suit you.”

 

John gave him a weak smile despite himself, before he cleared his throat, trying to bring his chaotic thoughts in order. The alcohol and empty stomach made him slightly drowsy. Maybe he was a little bit drunk. Nothing to worry about, though, he held his liquor well.

“Sherlock’s…”

What, exactly? Pressuring him? No, that wasn’t it. Lying to him? Well… not really. John huffed in irritation about his inability to pin-point the exact thing Sherlock had _done_ to piss him off. _Babying him_ , perhaps. Well. He couldn’t say that.

He settled for the next best thing: “Sherlock’s too much sometimes, y’know? Overwhelms me with-“ he waved his hands around in a nonchalant fashion- “stuff.”

 

The DI leaned back against the soft leather cushion, now in full analysis-mode (despite everything Sherlock had to say about that matter, Greg was a good detective). John felt Greg’s warm eyes on him and blushed involuntarily.

Greg probably thought he was talking about sex. It couldn’t even be farther from the truth: Not only did John not have even the slightest problem with the physical component in their relationship (although _everybody_ seemed to be worried about this), but he also never felt more distant to his own sexuality as when he was little. It just… didn’t matter.

John stared at the rim of his empty glass and wished that he had ordered a re-fill before this conversation.

They sat in silence for several minutes. The friendly atmosphere had shifted to something tenser, John was getting uneasy because he questioned his harsh reaction the more minutes Greg just regarded him silently. He almost started to feel bad. He had yelled at Sherlock. He had been kind of unfair, not letting Sherlock explain his rationale, however overwhelming it might be.

He just ran away.

Damn it.

 

“I’m the last person to disagree with Sherlock being a handful. God, that man is infuriating at his finest behavior and he drives me absolutely bonkers. But-“

Greg tilted his head to the side, obviously searching for a way to phrase this best- “He cares about you. More than he probably cares about anyone else. This whole thing is just as new to him as it is to you. Sherlock’s the most eager when he’s actually insecure. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you in any way- it’s just that he’s not entirely sure what to do.”

Despite of probably having the complete wrong idea about the situation, Greg nevertheless managed to hit the nail square on the head.

John had been so busy with his own needs when they entered these new dynamics that he didn’t even stop to consider how Sherlock felt about all of this.

Bugger.

Sherlock certainly wasn’t the bad boyfriend here.

 

Greg laughed a little at the expression on John’s face.

“That being said- it’s not bad to quarrel and fight every now and again. Just because you love each other doesn’t mean you always have to agree on everything.”

John’s face heated up even more. The thing wasn’t that he didn’t... you know, _know_ that he loved Sherlock and was loved by Sherlock in return; it was more hearing it out in the open, leaving Greg’s lips so casually, like it was the easiest thing in the world- that got to him for reasons he couldn’t even phantom.

 

And it served to make him feel even more miserable. He had been unfair while Sherlock had just tried to be considerate. He missed the mark a bit ( _But coming to think about it, did he really?_ John dismissed this thought immediately) but that wasn’t really the point. Sherlock had a hard time being nice to people. Sherlock had a hard time caring for people. And he had been wonderful to John the past weeks, especially as his… (John sucked in a sharp breath that didn’t go unnoticed by Greg)… _Daddy_.

John’s heart leaped into his throat by the mere notion of this word. He clambered the faint desire it awake right down.

There was no way the evening would turn around to… that. Sherlock was probably angry. He surely wouldn’t want to… after John had a tantrum over...pull-ups. A silly, childish tantrum.

 

“How ‘bout we have another round and then you’re crashing at my place for the night? I’ve free day tomorrow and I know for a fact that you do, too. Some space might do you and Sherlock good, cooling off your tempers.”

God bless Gregory Lestrade.

“Cheers, mate. That’d be lovely.”

The doctor still felt bad for his reaction (which- he now realized- was totally blown out of proportion), but he wasn’t calm enough to go back to Baker Street. He was hot-tempered by nature; it wouldn’t be the first night he spent away from home after an argument. Letting another beer lull his senses and crashing in Greg’s comfortable guest bedroom was a much more attractive option than going home half-drunk and dealing with Sherlock.

Still.

He regretted not bringing his phone with him. Just to send Sherlock a quick text that he was okay.

 

Another half-hour later, he dismissed the silly notion. He wasn’t a child or anything. And Sherlock was smart. He probably figured it out right away, probably even texted Greg to verify his assumption. Sherlock was fine.

And he would be, too.

 

**~ Several hours later ~**

John was tossing and turning in bed; unable to make his mind shut up. He was feeling dreadful and it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

He just couldn’t stop replaying the argument in his mind and he kept running around in circles over the fucking pull-ups.

He had been hyperaware of his own bladder the second his head had hit the pillow; irrationally fearing another accident. Accidents were bad as it were, but an accident in his friend’s flat was a level of humiliation he wasn’t ready for.

His mind was fogging over with a feeling that also had nothing to do with being slightly drunk. He told himself sternly that he shouldn’t feel this way, because he didn’t need to be little. That he wasn’t craving to be little right now; that he didn’t need Sherlock to forgive him and to wrap him in a warm hug and-

Maybe he should just go home.

But Baker Street was far away, and the bed was comfy. He didn’t want to go home. He liked staying at Greg’s. Greg was his friend and he made the best breakfast. John felt comfortable with Greg.

But he also wanted his Daddy.

 

Sherlock. Not Daddy.

 

His bladder throbbed, and John clambered his legs together, stubbornly telling his body to calm the fuck down. He knew that he didn’t need to _go_ , he had known five minutes ago when he went to the guest bathroom for the third time in the last hour. But now he wasn’t so sure anymore and a wave of discomfort rolled over him. His whole body felt sensitive and itching and his mind couldn’t stop drifting to soft things and stories and…. And Daddy.

 

John turned to lay on his stomach, allowing small distressed noises to leave his lips. Maybe if he hadn’t been so unfair, he could’ve spent the evening little, he hadn’t been little for a while… But that wasn’t going to happen now, and he scolded at the bubbly feeling in his stomach, as if he could prevent slipping out of the sheer force of will.

He wasn’t a baby.

He could be big. He was an adult.

An adult scared shitless about wetting the bed.

For a split second, John imagined having the safety of protection like…. He wouldn’t have to use them. Knowing that they were there might be enough to ease his anxieties…

The doctor buried his face in the soft pillow as he was hovering somewhere in-between headspaces, groaning; mad at himself and embarrassed and just generally miserable.

 

**Greg**

It was maybe two in the morning, when Gregory Lestrade shuffled through his dark flat to get a glass of water.

He and John had gotten a little bit drunk and he was already feeling the alcohol taking its toll on his body.

“’m getting old,” Greg told his toaster as he passed it. The toaster remained indifferent about the topic. Greg scolded at it, before chuckling at his own antics. Beer always made him silly.

 

He squinted at his phone while he drank his water, checking for new texts. Sherlock had texted him about two hours ago, informing him that he should keep an eye on John’s intoxication levels. Greg found it weirdly endearing that Sherlock was so invested in John’s well-being. It was strange, seeing the otherwise distant and cold detective so attentive and gentle.

Not the bad kind of strange.

But strange nonetheless.

Yet, perhaps not really surprising. The interdependence between the detective and his blogger was a mutual and intimate affair; they needed each other in a blatantly obvious, but heart-warming way. The loss of one was enough to break the other (At this, Greg had to pull his mind away from the dark months without Sherlock, willing with all his might to not remember the lost and broken look on John’s face. Because Sherlock came back to life. And with him, John did, too.) He was not shy to admit, though, that he was rooting for this relationship; given those two idiots seemed to make each other happy, and he had a soft spot for both of them. He couldn’t help it. They were pretty lovable idiots.

 

As the DI passed the guest room on the way back to his bedroom, he heard shuffling on the other side of the door and low noises that sounded a tad too distressed for his liking.

From the days and weeks John had spent here with him on Greg’s uttermost insistence after Sherlock’s “death” (He had been pretty worried for John’s health and sanity for the first couple of months), Greg was well accustomed to John’s complicated relationship with sleep.

 

He knocked lightly without even thinking about it. Although he was feeling hazy and just about ready to drop, he wouldn’t let a friend suffer if he could do anything to make it better.

“You alright, mate?”

There was silence on the other side of the door. Greg leaned against the wood a little, now instantly more alert. Maybe the alcohol didn’t sit well with John? Had he been sick?

“Greg?”

John’s voice was tight and different; Greg didn’t recognize it. It was also faint and small and barely audible through the door.

“Can you call Sherlock, please?”

The DI frowned at the weird request. What would John need Sherlock for, at this hour? Wasn’t the whole point to get away from Sherlock for a couple of hours?

“Please?”

Greg still frowned when he dialed the number, unable to deny his friend his wish; and not really fully understanding why he did it in the first place. Something about the soft tone in John’s voice…

 

Sherlock picked up after the first ring, as if he had been waiting with his phone in his hand (Knowing Sherlock, he most likely had).

“Is he okay?”

The frown (which Greg feared would be permanently engraved at his face at this rate) deepened considerably.

“Yeah,” he started cautiously, massaging his temples and trying to wrap his head around the situation he found himself in.

“He, uh, he asked for you.” Greg leaned against the door to the guest bedroom heavily, making enough noise for John to hear that he was nearby. He had the itching suspicion his friend would appreciate the sentiment.

“I’m on my way.” Shuffling on the other side of the line. A bag being packed roughly; the phone squashed between shoulder and ear.

 

“Hold on, Sherlock. That’s- Christ, what’s going on?”

He heard Sherlock sigh in his ‘must you ask so inane questions’-manner and a door fell shut.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Sherlock-“

“Everything’s fine just… trust me, Greg.”

And the line was dead.

 

The DI stared at the phone in his hand.

For several full minutes.

He didn’t even know Sherlock still remembered his first name.

 

This evening, man.

He just wanted to have a quiet night out to watch the game. Never a boring day when the dynamic chaos duo was involved, apparently.

“But, it’s a forty minutes’ drive,” Greg told himself quietly, while scrubbing his hand over his face. It wasn’t the first night he lost sleep over Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and he’d be damned if it would be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sherlock**

The second the cab came to a screeching halt, Sherlock was out the door, carelessly flinging way too many notes at the surprised driver.

The detective had been worried sick the minute John left the flat; annoyingly irrational fears and insecurities tormenting him, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else besides John and the argument.

Again, Sherlock was, by no means, completely inept in the sentiment department; he knew more about feelings than the people around him gave him credit for. He just usually didn’t care about them enough to let them interfere with his day-to-day life.

But he cared about John; to a ridiculously high extend.

 

He hadn’t meant to overwhelm his partner with the pull-ups, nor did he have the ill intentions on forcing them upon John when he was at his most open and trusting level.

It had just… made sense. It had been a logical conclusion. John’s fear of another accident was heightened in a child-like mindset and the pull-ups provided an easy source of comfort. The sheer thought of accusing John of being _unable_ to control his body and insisting that he _actually used_ the item, hurt Sherlock in a way he couldn’t really describe.

He would never pressure John- his wonderful, strong, precious John- to do something he didn’t want to do (well, maybe he had done it and would continue to do it, occasionally. Only when strictly necessary, of course. For science, or a case. Or just to take the piss, from time to time. But never when John was feeling little. Never when John trusted him with all of his heart).

He just wanted John’s little moments, as rare as they had been, to be completely at ease, free from all the worries constantly planted in his mind while he was big.

He just wanted to make this good, for John.

Be a good Daddy, for John- the best Daddy he could be. And the best partner he could be. The best everything he could be- for John.

 

Perhaps, Sherlock thought to himself, while ringing the doorbell to Lestrade’s flat with unforgiving force, he didn’t think this through as thoroughly as he should have (the downside of thinking with your heart, instead with your brain, apparently).

The DI answered the door a minute later, looking disheveled in his checkered dressing gown and plush slippers. The image, despite the tense situation, made Sherlock’s lip twitch ever so slightly.

It was just so familiar and domestic- Sherlock still remembered this version of Lestrade from the days when he suffered through endless weeks of drug withdrawal on the officer’s couch. Gregory Lestrade had been his only friend in the world during his troubled youth. In a way, he owed everything he had to the inspector and his stubborn insistence on not giving up on a young, but severely addicted genius- claiming that he saw that Sherlock was capable to great things if he got his life on track. He had been right.

“Not one word,” Greg interrupted Sherlock’s trip down memory lane in a gruff voice.

Sherlock held up his hands in a form of peace offering, failing to keep the small grin off his face.

 

He followed Greg’s shuffling steps to the guest bedroom silently. The DI lifted his hand to knock on the door, but paused, and turned, to look at Sherlock.

“I’m still not convinced everything’s fine. But I trust you, like you asked. Don’t make me regret this decision, Sherlock.”

The detective pressed his lips in a thin line and nodded solemnly. Greg was protective over the people he cared about, and Sherlock knew for a fact that Greg cared a lot about John.

“You won’t. And you’ll get answers, I promise.”

Greg’s gaze wandered over Sherlock’s face a few seconds longer, before he sighed and knocked on the door twice. Then, he made way, so Sherlock could push the door open.

“I’ll be right here,” he mumbled, gesturing to the nearby living room, indicating that he would give them some privacy, but would stay alert nevertheless in case things went awry.

 

It was a dark, moon-less night. The room smelled faintly of beer and freshly washed linen.

John had his face half-buried in a pillow and peeked at Sherlock warily. The genius immediately recognized that John was coiled tight like a spring; anxious energy radiating off his posture. His body, despite the comfortable position it should be in, was moving constantly, unable to relax.

His expression was enough to file Sherlock in on all the details. John was slightly tipsy, not drunk per se, and more drawn to emotional extremes in his disinhibited state (a trait of intoxicated John that Sherlock came to know fairly early into their friendship). John was also clearly anxious and ashamed about the quarrel they shared earlier that day; a sentiment that Sherlock whole-heartedly related to.

 

But John was also wavering on the edge of being little. (Not an entirely surprising turn of events, all things considered.)

And he already looked the part, Sherlock mused as he just stood in the doorway, leaning against the closed door, and observing how John’s hair was tousled from shuffling around on the bed; how he was clad in just his vest and boxer shorts, the blanket twisted around his legs; how he watched him.

Sherlock was already attuned to the small differences in the intensity of John’s little experience: Sometimes, it was more like a more intimate sign of affection between partners, sometimes it was a way to have some light-hearted fun, and sometimes- this time- it was like John craved a break from being an adult. Letting himself fall. Having his Daddy catch him.

Sherlock wasn’t taking any more chances tonight, though.

So, he waited.

While waiting, the detective tried to show a calmness he didn’t feel, to give John a stronger sense of security, indicating him that he wasn’t mad at him (quite the contrary at this point; if anything, Sherlock was still mad at himself); no matter how this moment between them would play out.

 

The tense silence only lasted a couple more seconds, before John’s resolve finally broke. The shift was indicated in his face first, for it crumbled ever so slightly, and then in his posture, for he scrambled in a sitting position and opened in his arms in a- what could only be described as adorable- demand for a hug.

“ _Daddy_ …!”

Sherlock crossed the room immediately and wasted no more precious time. He wrapped his little doctor in a tight hug, tugging John’s head safely underneath his chin, letting him bury his face against the familiar fabric of Sherlock’s scarf.

John rubbed his cheek against it (an action, Sherlock came to associate with his partner trying to self-soothe) and locked his arms around Sherlock’s waist, fingers aimlessly twisting and crumbling Sherlock’s shirt, the back of his hand gracing the inner lining of the beloved Belfast. John’s movements had a desperate edge to them that made Sherlock feel inexplicitly bad, even though he couldn’t pin-point why.

He just hated seeing John upset.

Even worse if it was little John.

Even worse if it was most certainly Sherlock’s fault.

 

“Daddy-“ John started again, but caught himself off with a noise that lay somewhere between a sigh and a dry sob.

The detective cradled his head securely and shushed him, gently: “Now, now; I’m here, everything’s fine. You’re alright; calm down, love, there’s a good lad…”

To emphasize his words, he shrugged off his Belfast quickly (the bag cluttered to the ground, forgotten for the moment) and kneeled on the bed, to get even closer to John.

 

His partner melted against him. Sherlock had seldomly seen John this deep in headspace. Usually, he would even refrain from using the term “Daddy” at all, much too shy of the (ridiculous) baby-ish implications might come with it. But tonight, Sherlock had a feeling that John really needed it. And, despite the situation, Sherlock was overcome by a warm wave of relief; relief that John still trusted him with this vulnerable part of himself; that the unfortunate incident with these blasted pull-ups wasn’t enough to damage this still fragile bond between them.

 

“’m not good. I w’s bad. I..I..I threw a tantrum and … and ‘m sorry, Daddy!”

The detective’s heart gave a powerful throb.

“You just made a bad choice, you’re not bad, you’re my perfect little boy and…” _I love you so much_. “I’m not mad. You’re forgiven, everything’s forgiven.”

John surprised Sherlock by shaking his head violently, rubbing his face almost painfully against Sherlock’s collarbone.

“No.”

“No?” No…. what?

“Doesn’t feel right.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

 

It was that exact moment in which Sherlock realized that he slithered into the whole age-play endeavor tremendously unprepared, despite the amounts of research he had done. His sole focus had been on comfort and fun, but- as he now realized- these were just some parts of the whole deal. He honestly didn’t know if he could offer that sort of guidance which only now dawned on him.

But it didn’t matter.

He couldn’t start now; starting head over heels was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

“I see.”

 

Sherlock lifted John’s face from his scarf and gave him a look, which he hoped was stern enough for John’s conscious to be mollified, but open enough to make John see that he felt out of his depth. It was unfamiliar, being vulnerable, having to admit your own helplessness. Sherlock didn’t like it. But that also didn’t really matter.

“In that case, consider this your warning. Do you think some set rules and punishments might help you, to forgive _yourself_ for what you call ‘bad’ behavior?”

This wasn’t the right time to have this conversation. They should have had this conversation days ago.

The tension bled from John in a long, relived exhale. He nodded.

Sherlock’s mind was reeling. They really hadn’t been going at this the right way at all. Some fine Daddy he was.

“We’re not talking about this now, but, if you wish, as soon as you’re big again. As for tonight, I think you’ve done enough of self-punishment already, haven’t you?”

John considered a moment before nodding, the corners of his mouth turning downwards.

 

Sherlock had them maneuvered in a sitting position, where he was perched against the headboard and John was laying heavily against him. The warm weight was comforting in this surreal, overwhelming moment.

“Do you want to go home?”

John shook his head, still restlessly shifting beside Sherlock.

“Why don’t you try and sleep a bit, yes? It’s late and you must be tired, love bug.”

Another shake of the head, this time punctuated with an almost inaudible groan. In an attempt to soothe his distressed partner, Sherlock started to caress over his back; beginning at the top of his neck in even, long strokes down to his flanks and back up again.

 

“What’s gotten you so upset?”

He believed he already knew the answer (he was Sherlock Holmes, after all), but didn’t trust his intuition as much as he normally would. Previous miscalculation made him pretty insecure about his role. He wasn’t yet sure how to overcome the inadequacy that he felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders.

“John?” The detective prompted not unkindly, after his question was met with silence. He looked down and caught sight of the rosy color of John’s cheeks. Something about accidents (or god forbid, those pull-ups) then. It was the most likely thing to cause such a high amount of embarrassment, no matter if John was big, little, or in-between headspaces.

 

“I’m terrified that I’ll… you know…”

The shame in his voice held more about big John than little John. It wouldn’t be the first time that embarrassment kicked John out of his headspace a bit.

“And I can’t stop thinking about the….” Here, the struggle to even put that word in his mouth, was evident in John’s posture. “… the pull-ups.”

Right after the confession, John hurriedly hid his face, as if Sherlock would now think much less of him for it.

 

“I’m sorry for buying them. I didn’t think they would make you this upset.”

“It’s not… that. I’m upset at myself.”

 

John sighed deeply against Sherlock’s neck, searching Sherlock’s hands with his own and held them in a tight grip.

“I’m sorry for lashing out at you like that. It wasn’t… I shouldn’t reflect my insecurities on you; it’s neither fair nor justified.” He paused, considering the situation they were in. “I’m sorry I ran away and made you worry. I’m sorry that you had to drive through half of London just because I’m…”

“That’s enough apologies for one night.”

“But I was…” Here, the doctor bit his lips to refrain from saying ‘bad’ again, blushing momentarily at the reminder that despite the conversation, he wasn’t very far away from slipping back down. Sherlock noticed, too.

 

“You know that I don’t actually think you’re a baby that needs to be diapered, right?”

“Maybe I am.”

“Don’t say self-degrading things like that. You want to be little, not a baby. We both know you don’t actually need them. I would never assume that you…. I just thought they could offer some comfort in moments when you’re feeling anxious and insecure. I would never… expect you to actually use them. I just thought that maybe… being aware of their presence would help you relax, despite your worries.”

 

 John let go of Sherlock’s hands to wrap him in a warm embrace.

“I got scared,” he admitted softly, “scared that… that you wanted me to be…”

“I just want you to be happy, love.” Not scared, as John obviously was about the whole wetting issue. But the level of audacity which he would have to display for pressuring John into a role, which was so unlike to the one he craved for, sent a cold shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

 

John nodded, more to himself than to agree with Sherlock’s statement, it seemed.

“I don’t want to worry anymore, Sherlock… _Daddy_.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly, deliberately. The thing was, in a spark of the moment decision, Sherlock had decided to bring a pull-up along _, just in case_. It was a delicate subject to breach now, and it definitely needed more discussion that they could have early in the morning in Gregory Lestrade’s guest room.

 

But John was downright _anxious_ about having an accident.  And, despite of the emotional excitement, Sherlock could see that John was very tired. But he also knew that there was hardly any point to override John’s decision that he wanted to stay and bundle him up to drive back to Baker Street. It would exactly be the type of controlling act John wouldn’t feel comfortable with; and more than anything, Sherlock wished for his John to be comfortable.

So, it seemed like he had to jump into another of these delicate moments unprepared and head first.

 

Sherlock drew small circles on John’s stomach- an action that John in every headspace experienced as extremely soothing- and spoke softly into the quietness of the room; a low timbre of warmth and affection, laced with fondness: “We could try it. Just for tonight.”

The detective held his breath as he felt the muscles of John’s abdomen tighten underneath his palm. As with almost everything regarding ‘little’ things, John was most likely fighting an internal battle between accepting the comfort and being ashamed by it. Usually- considering they hadn’t really delved into all the depths of age-play yet- it was a quiet battle, where John could rationalize his desires to an extent that allowed him to enjoy them.

This, however, would be a bitter pill to swallow.

 

John was a sensitive human being in ways that Sherlock only gradually came to understand.

What often was perceived as a hot-headed tempter masked a deep anxiety to please, a frustration of not meeting a certain set of expectations, a perfectionist in a complex emotional sense.

Sherlock knew that it was not easy for John to admit that he might desire something so distinctive child-like; something he couldn’t brush off in his mind as an enjoyment a lot of people shared, like he could with his desire for cuddles or reading or coloring books. Even the term ‘Daddy’ could be justified away somehow. But not this. This was something _only_ for little John.

 

“Just for tonight?”

“Tonight, and whenever you want to.”

“And if I… if I actually use them…what…?”

“Then everything’s just fine, because that’s what they are for.”

“Okay.”

“Good boy,” Sherlock praised gently, like he knew John liked. Just like that, John was fully little, all traces of big John momentarily vanishing from his face.

In all honesty, he was relived by the turn of events, mainly because it meant John would finally be able to sleep. His partner looked more and more exhausted as the minutes ticked by.

With slow, deliberate movements (as if not to startle John out of the haze that seemed to have fallen over both of them), the detective reached for his bag and fished for the pull-up without breaking eye-contact with John. His little doctor became slightly droopy-eyed and Sherlock watched with bemusement how his thumb gravitated near his lips (another thing, Sherlock observed John seemed to desire when he was little but hadn’t allowed himself to indulge so far).

Despite _everything_ , Sherlock looked forward to spending the rest of the night with John. Falling asleep next to John was a thing he quickly fell in love with; and falling asleep with little John brought a serenity over him that he had hardly ever experienced. There weren’t many moments in his line of work- hell, in his _life_ \- where he allowed a wave of calmness to wash over him. When he was curled up with John next to him, his mind was blissfully quiet, and the world was alright.

Sherlock smiled when his fingers brushed the other item he had brought along, deciding it was the perfect treat to present to John after the pull-up business was settled. Would John have been in his adult mind-set, he would have called Sherlock an old softie for thinking like that, but Sherlock just couldn’t help himself. John made him soft.

 

“Do you want help?”

John blushed a bright shade of red, snatched the pull-up from Sherlock’s hand and trotted towards the guest bathroom.

“I can do it,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing.

 

Sherlock settled more comfortably against the pillows and let out a long breath. With all the turns the day had taken, he would have expected his mind to be racing like it had been before, however in that very moment, he felt peaceful.

He closed his eyes.

 

When he opened them again, John stood in the doorway to the guest bathroom, anxiously pulling at his shirt, as if to cover the pull-up that was now hidden from view underneath his boxer shorts.

“Daddy?” he whispered, standing stock-still and unsure, obviously looking for guidance and validation during this completely new experience. Two reassurances, Sherlock was very happy to provide (although, granted, at this point he wasn’t sure anymore what the hell they were doing, but that didn’t matter).

“Come here, love bug.”

 

He found himself with a lap full of John Watson in the blink of an eye.

“I know trying something new can be quite scary, I’m so proud of you for being brave and trying anyway,” Sherlock murmured against John’s hair.

Rationally, they both knew that putting on a pull-up was by far one of the lesser ‘scary’ experiences John had made in his life with Sherlock, but it did the trick of easing the rest of John’s tension. He soaked up the words of praise eagerly, happy to please his Daddy, happy to please Sherlock.

 

Sherlocks ears picked up shuffling from the room nearby, and he suddenly remembered something really important.

“Love? Greg was really worried when he called me. He thinks something’s wrong…”

Sherlock felt John exhale long and slow against his skin. “I don’t want Greg to worry. He’s my friend.”

“He cares about you a lot,” Sherlock agreed, licking his lips. Calculating how to phrase the next sentence. Despite Ella, nobody knew about their new intimacy, and in a way, it was nobody’s business. But Greg was… an essential part of both of their lives. If Greg would know, a lot of things would be so much… easier here on out. Sherlock longed for someone to talk to about his insecurities; it was sometimes difficult with John, for John would feel guilty of putting Sherlock in a situation where he could have insecurities in the first place. Additionally, Sherlock wasn’t comfortable with keeping such an important part of themselves from the DI. Greg was their closest friend.

 

“He’ll understand.”

Sherlock felt bad for throwing so many new and heavy things at John, but the situation pressured both of them out of their comfort zones.

Predictably, John tensed, and Sherlock put his palm over the little doctor’s now thundering heart. He looked at Sherlock with big, round eyes that spoke volumes about his emotional state. He then shifted, as if unsure of himself, and Sherlock watched him cringe when the pull-up made a very quiet crinkling noise.

“What if he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore? It’s weird, _I’m_ weird-“

“He won’t.”

 

Momentarily, it looked like John was ready to fight it some more, but instead, he surprised Sherlock once again: “I don’t want to hide from Greg.”

Sherlock tried to sound not as relived as he did and failed spectacularly. “You don’t have to. This is not something to be ashamed of.”

John frowned at him like he whole-heartedly disagreed but, after a moment of consideration pursed his lips. “Ella says it’s good. To be comfortable. To be… honest.”

“Ella’s right.”

A deep sigh traveled through John’s whole body and he closed his eyes.

“It’s hard.”

“I know.”

Sherlock started massaging his partner’s scalp. “I’ve had many hard times with Greg, before you came into my life. There were many things I struggled with, many things I was ashamed to be honest about, but… Greg’s always been there for me.”

“He’s always been there for me, too,” John agreed in a breathy voice, the ‘ _when you were gone’_ not voiced but weighing heavily between every syllable.

“It’s going to be okay, love.”

“I trust you, Daddy.”

 

It was these words that more than anything touched Sherlock’s heart with such intensity, that he thought it might burst. What a privilege, what a joy, to lay here with the man he loved, the man he had betrayed, the man he had lied to, the man he had lost- to have this man trust him, with this, with all of himself- Sherlock thought he might weep, if he wasn’t careful. To have John Watson’s love and trust was a privilege he thought he’d never be granted again. To have it was almost overwhelming, exhilarating, dazzling. The intensity of him own emotions made him light-headed.

 

“I have a little something for you,” he said, so he wouldn’t blurt out an ill-timed, overly sentimental love confession.

He held out the bear for John to see. John bit his lip as his gaze flickered from Sherlock’s face to the teddy’s button eyes and back to Sherlock.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock encouraged affectionately. “It’s all yours.”

Sherlock watched with growing admiration, how John first patted the bear’s head hesitantly and after some seconds taking hold of the whole thing, drawing it close, rubbing his cheek against the soft fur.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Sherlock believed he saw a sparkle of big John in those young eyes, but that might just have been a trick of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ga'www those two dorks <3
> 
> If you love them as much as I do, leave some kudos, or a bookmark, or a comment ;D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are confused about some things that John struggles with: I'm trying to evoke a sense of being little without wanting to be babied. John Watson strikes me as a complex character and I was always bewildered that other age-play fics exploring little!John babified him so easily.   
> It's something- while it's valuable if you like it- that I want to problematize in my little!John series.

**Greg**

Greg scratched his stubble, drawn between saying ‘fuck it’ and returning to bed, or staying in the living room, waiting for Sherlock to give him an explanation that’d better be good.

Eventually, he got up and stalked around the room, for lack of better things to do, and eventually got himself a coffee and some pain killers, just so he would feel occupied with something remotely useful (and not feel like he was left on hold in his own fucking flat).

“This is stupid,” he told the quiet room, before he sat down to wait.

 

When Sherlock emerged a while later, the DI was deeply immersed in some late-late-night talk show he found on the telly.

“And… I’m sorry to announce it, but you’re not the father, Brian!” the talk show-host went on to console the now-not-father-to-be.

“God damn it, Cheryl. Why’d you cheat on such a decent bloke?!” Greg asked the tv, before scooping another spoon-full of cereal into his mouth.

 

“Enjoying yourself?” Sherlock’s bemused voice made Greg look up at him momentarily, before scooting over, making enough room for the lanky man to sit next to him.

“I’ll do without any criticism, thank you very much. If I’m having a semi sleepless night, I’ll might as well embrace it.”

 

Sherlock chuckled deeply, pleasantly, before the couch dipped and he lend against the backrest. “I remember this couch,” he said absentmindly- almost nostalgic- and smiled involuntarily.

“You should,” Greg remarked around his second mouthful. “It sure as hell remembers you,” he added, gesturing to the piece of armrest that was still missing from the time a young Sherlock Holmes, enraged with the world and pained from drug withdrawal, had taken his wrath out on the poor thing. With his _teeth_.

They shared a laugh, before Greg muted the telly and set his bowl at the coffee table.

 

“Alright. I’m listening.”

Greg watched the younger man purse his lips and tilt his head slightly to the side. It was rare, seeing Sherlock deliberately choosing his words; the DI got much more accustomed to the version of Sherlock that was loud, with basically no verbal filter. Whatever this was about, it had to be important, otherwise Sherlock would have already spilled, frustrated at even having to spell out some things, because everybody around him couldn’t keep up with his fast-paced thoughts.

“What I’m about to tell you… it’s not easy for John, you have to understand. And he- and _I_ \- don’t want you to jump to conclusions before you’ve heard the whole story, please. It might sound… unusual, but bear with me, yes?”

“If you’re trying to make me worry less, you’re doing a piss-poor job so far,” Greg laughed tensely, overplaying the uneasiness he felt when seeing Sherlock so carefully wording each phrase. The irrational part of his brain immediately came up with all sorts of horrible scenarios, that would have caused John to act so peculiar and Sherlock to be so…. Un-Sherlock-like.

Sherlock glanced at Greg’s face briefly.

“No, nobody’s dying of some horrendous disease,” he remarked, some of that old sneer creeping back into his voice.

“I wasn’t thinking that!” Greg lied, immensely relived.

“Sure,” Sherlock mumbled, before sighing, and focusing his attention to the wall. “Alright, so. It all started when…”

 

Sherlock talked for about half an hour. Greg sat quietly, listening attentively, asking for clarification every now and again. He also watched Sherlock carefully, taking in the different emotions playing out on the detective’s face as he relived different memories.

When he was done, Sherlock appeared visually drained, but relived as well.

 

The ticking of the kitchen clock, the rain tapping against his widows, and Sherlock’s steady breathing were the only sounds in Greg’s otherwise quiet flat.

It was comforting, in a sense that it was familiar.

The DI took another minute to let the information sink in. His forgotten cereal had gone soggy in its bowl and the program on the telly had switched to one of those tedious dating shows.

He should probably be bothered by this. It was… _unusual_ , as Sherlock had phrased it.

But.

He just wasn’t.

Because it wasn’t… in their line of work, a decent coping mechanism was hard to find and harder to keep. It was easy to get absorbed in self-destructive habits to deal with the immense stress of their day to day lives. It was easy to become addicted to substances, to bad people, to physical excesses.

This on the other hand, was _adorable_. There wasn’t any harm or any risks involved it was just… a pure emotional state.

 

Greg was a father of two. Although his girls were grown-up now, he still remembered vividly the gratifying and cleansing effect being able to care for someone in such an innocent and straight-forward way. Of course, this could hardly be compared to the relationship Sherlock just described to him, but, nevertheless, he really understood where they were coming from. It sounded like something both of them benefited a great deal from. And at the end of the day- really- that was all that Greg wished for them.

They all had seen enough darkness to last for a lifetime.

They all more than deserved all the happiness and comfort they could get.

 

“John’s worried that you’re quitting him your friendship after this.”

“Oh my God, you are a pair of dramatic twats.”

“Well, are you?”

“Does it look like I am?” Upon seeing the genuine expression of uncertainty on the younger man’s face, Greg softened. “Everything’s fine, Sherlock. I’m not… appalled or anything; honestly, that’d be ridiculous. It’s not like what you’re doing is… bad. Out of the ordinary, sure. But you both aren’t ordinary, so there’s no surprise.”

 

“You’re taking this better than I imagined.”

“I’m just going ahead and be offended by that, if you don’t mind. Honestly, Sherlock. We’ve know each other for years-“

“ _Decades_.”

“Don’t you be cheeky to me while I’m reassuring you, you brat,” Greg chided, but his grin betrayed him. He was glad that Sherlock lost some of his somber mood, considering it wasn’t a somber topic they were talking about. He had missed this version of Sherlock; the joking one, the one not putting up any walls around himself. He had come a long way since vomiting all over himself and stealing case files from Greg’s desk. A long way from diagnosing himself as a sociopath and refusing any profound human connection.

 

Suddenly, Greg was overcome by a deep sense of pride, that warmed him inside out. This new thing was another testament for how far of a way Sherlock had come; of how much he grew as a person in the last couple of years. This was good, not only for John, but for Sherlock as well.  After being closed off emotionally for so long (Greg had watched them skirt around each other. It had been antagonizing to watch), allowing this intimate connection was a huge step towards a well-needed _healing_. And, as a front-row spectator the entire time, Greg could attest that there was a thing missing to help them close off the wounds from the past still gaping wide open, infecting every aspect of their lives. Maybe, they finally did find their missing link.

 

“As long as it helps you, you shouldn’t worry about it. Thank you for telling me, though. I appreciate your trust.”

“You’re our friend,” Sherlock replied, as if that was reason enough to share such a deep intimate aspect of his life with the DI. Maybe it was.

Greg laughed good-naturally, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder, reassuringly. He knew that talking about sentiment was dreaded by the younger man, and he soldiered through it masterfully.

“I appreciate that, too. Although it tends to keep me up at all weird hours of the night.”

Sherlock snorted, but then gave Greg a small smile filled with gratitude.

 

“And if you’ll ever need a babysitter, I’ll be happy to stick around,” Greg grinned, but not wide enough to reduce his remark to a playful quip.

In all honesty, he had no idea whatsoever about age-play or littles, as Sherlock had called these things. But he knew John well, and he treasured John’s friendship; he couldn’t imagine not getting along with this side of his friend, as well. He was a bit worried that the statement might have come off as derogatory or as if he was forcing himself into something that was so distinctively theirs. But, yeah. He was a bit curious. What could he say, it was in his nature.

Instead of throwing a negative remark against the DI’s head, Sherlock just eyed his hands thoughtfully; for a very long moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, barely above a whisper: “Thanks, Greg. This means a lot.”

 

“Is he asleep now? He seemed kind of out of it and upset the whole evening.”

“Yes, he’s dead to the world, fortunately. Today’s been… it’s been a lot.”

“You look exhausted. Might want to consider catching some shut eye, too.”

“Probably, yes.”

Greg stood up and let his joints pop. Sherlock, however, remained rooted to the spot; seemingly anxious to say something else. Greg waited patiently. It wasn’t like he was in any hurry, at this point.

 

“Sometimes… I feel like I’m doing everything wrong.”

Despite the intimate conversation they were having minutes ago, Greg was completely taken aback by the sudden confession.

He had never heard Sherlock admit to having insecurities before. He knew they were there- the lanky detective was just human, after all- but he never thought he’d see the day where Sherlock swallowed his pride and be honest about them.

Greg did the only thing that could be done in such a moment; he sat down again, close enough that Sherlock would be able to reach out for a comforting touch, if he needed it.

 

“He’s so… and I’m just…I’m just me,” Sherlock continued, his face turning into a frown at the last word. “I don’t want to hurt him or to upset him, yet here we are; and it _will keep happening_ , because I’m me and I’m-“ here he paused and closed his eyes, as if preparing for a slap in the face- “Terrified. Absolutely terrified. What if I ruin this, like I’ve ruined everything else? What if he gets tired of forgiving me?”

Sherlock pressed his hands together tightly, until his knuckles were turning an unhealth shade of white. The DI sighed and reached over gently- aware of the younger man’s usual aversion to being touched unexpectedly- to pry the fingers apart. Sherlock let him.

 

“You’ve got to be more gentle with yourself, Sherlock. Hey, don’t give me that look! I know that look and I’ll just tell you once to get rid of this blasted train of thought.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and turned away, probably sullen upon realizing that Greg was capable of some decent deductions, after all.

“I don’t know what I’d do if he left me.”

“C’mon, Sherlock, you’re smarter than that.”

“Most of the time I don’t even know what I’m doing. Nothing’s perfect. Nothing’s the way John probably pictures it; nothing’s like how he deserves it, it’s just-“

“Love isn’t perfect.”

At this, Sherlock stopped his rant to look at his friend surprised. Greg chuckled, amused that both John and Sherlock appeared like deer in the headlights as soon as that word entered the conversation.

“It’s raw, and confusing, and ridiculous but that’s what makes it _real_.”

 

If somebody had told Gregory Lestrade that he’d be spending the early hours of his morning having a heart to heart with Scotland Yard’s self-diagnosed sociopath, he would have flipped them off.

But life worked in mysterious ways.

And it was worth all the sleep that he lost that night.

 

**~ The Next Morning ~**

**John**

The first thing John became aware of when he gradually woke up was the warmth that surrounded him. The blankets were soft- softer like the ones at home- and a familiar body had wrapped himself around his back protectively. Sherlock’s hands rested on his chest and hip, holding him in a soft, but defined grip. Calm breaths rushed over his neck in pleasant waves. Small bubbles of happiness whirled around in his stomach; waking up with Daddy was the best.

John sighed happily and snuggled closer.

He still had the bear in his arms, and without giving it a thought, he rubbed one honey-colored paw against his cheek. Half-way through the motion, he realized several things at once:

1.) The bear definitely needed a name, it couldn’t just be ‘the bear’. It was a special bear, after all.

2.) He could hear clattering from somewhere in the flat, meaning Greg must already be up, preparing breakfast. That made him quite giddy, he loved Greg’s breakfast!

3.) He still was little.

 

That never happened before. Sure, he had fallen asleep little now and again, but never woken up still in headspace. It must have something to do with the pull-up, of which he only became fully aware of when he concentrated on it. It was still dry (small victories) and soft against his crotch; not at all restricting like he imagined it would be. It was just… warm. And snug. It made him feel… protected. Somewhere behind the sleepy fog over his mind, he realized that he should probably worry about this development; at least it seemed like a reasonable thing to worry about.

But he just didn’t want to.

They hadn’t played in ages. He wasn’t ready to let go of the freedom and peacefulness that came over him once he had settled comfortably into headspace.

He didn’t have an accident and Daddy hugged him in his sleep- like people did when they loved each other- and breakfast was only minutes away; and all of this made John very, very happy.

 

The little doctor turned in the embrace, flushing ever so slightly when the pull-up made a crinkling noise. It wasn’t the bad kind of embarrassment.

He found his partner awake and looking at him, a stupid silly smile plastered on his lips. John reached out to touch its corners; the fact that he made Sherlock this happy made him even more happy than he already was. Pleasant energy thrummed through his veins and he felt light-headed with the intensity of his own emotions.

 

“Morning, love bug.”

John felt the heavy timbre of the detective’s morning voice vibrate against his own chest. It was a pleasant sound; like a warm blanket or sweet honey. It wrapped itself around John and calmed every last trace of worry left in John’s heart. All that was there was fondness now and trust.

Overcome by the need to be closer, he cuddled up to Sherlock’s lean body; feeling the expanse of muscle and soft skin against his own skin. Daddy knew that he was little right now, because Daddy knew everything, always. And he’d be considerate and would never push something upon John that he wasn’t ready for. John still felt bad for last evening, but managed to swallow it down, in favor of enjoying the moment.

“Morning, Daddy.”

Sherlock leaned in and gave John a kiss on his nose, which made the little go cross-eyed and giggle quietly.

“Someone’s happy today, hm?”

“Very.”

“Are you wet?”

“…no,” John felt his face flush and he lowered his gaze, to where his fingers were clutching the blanket.

A warm touch underneath his chin made him look up again and meet icy blue eyes sparkling with kindness.

“Good boy,” warmth spread through John’s entire body at the praise, and he couldn’t remember the last time he accepted compliments so easily and allowed himself to bathe in them; when he wasn’t immediately chiding himself for enjoying being the center of somebody’s attention. It seems so selfish when he’s not…

John bit his lower lip. He didn’t want to think these thoughts right now. They were thoughts for big John.

 

“Breakfast! Get it while it’s hot, boys!”

All big thoughts were immediately dismissed from his mind when he heard the cheery call through the door.

He grasped his partner’s hand excitedly, because did Daddy _hear_ that?!

“Breakfast, Daddy!”

Sherlock opened his mouth, the lines around his eyes crinkling amused, but John didn’t give him a chance to get a word in, because he was already out of bed (almost falling for being entangled in the blankets) and half-way at the door.

“Easy, love,” Sherlock laughed, but caught John’s hand just in time, before he could turn the doorknob.

“I told Greg,” he then murmured quietly, immediately adding a sense of authority around himself; which squashed John’s excitement a bit.

“Hey, none of this now,” Sherlock reached out to smooth the frown out of his little doctor’s eyebrows. “Everything’s just fine.”

Somewhere in the far corners of his head, big John was having a break-down over the humiliation of one of his best mates knowing that he liked soft things and called Sherlock ‘Daddy’. Little John, though, was only mildly concerned with big John’s issues (which was very, very rare; if it had happened at all. Usually, shame was enough to kick the doctor completely out of headspace again. This time, however, he was settled into it quite firmly; and the childish items around him helped him feel small).

 

“So, now, do you want to age up to have breakfast with Greg? Or do you want to stay little?”

Oh.

John hadn’t even considered that.

He felt worry suddenly pulling at his stomach but tried to ignore it in favor of considering the choices Daddy gave him. Choices were good, he always liked them. He liked choosing what kind of book they read or which ice-cream they would order as dessert. He liked that he had a choice about the pull-up, too. He had been so scared to be pressured into something he didn’t like at all. But the choices allowed him to be as independent as he wanted without the worry and pressure that came with thinking about options in the first place.

Right.

Back to the matter at hand.

The worry in his tummy gave a small tug. John looked down at their clasped hands, and at teddy in his other hand.

He wasn’t ready to give it up already; he barely had time to enjoy being little last night.

 

“Can I stay little?” he asked his feet in a breathy small voice.

“Of course, love,” Daddy’s voice sounded a bit surprised and despite the worry, John had to grin. It was rarely the case that anyone could surprise Sherlock Holmes. He felt _immensely_ pleased with himself for pulling it off.

A large hand ruffled his already disheveled bed-hair.

“Why don’t you get changed (here, John blushed, not missing the implication) and I’ll wait for you in the kitchen? You can bring your bear, if you like?”

The little doctor just nodded, already rushing to the bathroom with the bag, Sherlock had brought with him last night. While he wasn’t so ashamed of the pull-up now that he was little, he still wouldn’t want Greg to find it in his trash bin.

 

When John emerged several minutes later- now without a pull-up and wearing the same clothes he had the night before; the bear in his hand the only immediate give-away of his headspace- Greg was busy working on something at the stove and Sherlock sat at Greg’s tiny kitchen table; both nursing enormous cups of black coffee (which tasted just _yucky_ in John’s opinion, and his big side agreed wholeheartedly).

Sherlock must’ve ‘warned’ Greg beforehand, for there was no sign of puzzlement on the DI’s upon seeing that a grown man was clutching a stuffed bear and appeared to be shy around the two people who he considered his closest friends.

He merely nodded a greeting over his shoulder, before concentrating once again on being busy with the food.

 

The weight of the situation dawned on John momentarily (and pushed him to age up a tiny little bit), as his eyes flickered between his best friend and his partner.

Sherlock recognized his inner turmoil immediately and went to resolve it. He patted the empty seat next to himself and beckoned John over to sit with him. Relief filled John’s heart and made the worry in his stomach shrink. Daddy would know what to do. Daddy almost always knew what to do.

“What would you like to drink?” Daddy asked immediately as he sat down, giving him no time to be self-conscious about the way his bear was perched up on his lap.

The little doctor bit his lip, thinking hard. Big John would want tea (should he ask for tea, so Greg wouldn’t be even more aware that John was a little different right now?), but little John wanted something softer, something sweeter.

“Can I have milk, please?” he asked quietly, hyperaware of the way his smaller voice must sound to someone only accustomed to his normal voice; which, although not very loud was always strong and sure.

“Sure. Thank you for asking so politely.”

 

John flushed and looked at his bear. What, he wondered, was Greg thinking? Was he listening to them? Was he thinking it strange that John was so shy and Sherlock was praising him for doing so little? Was he _judging_ , despite the fact that Daddy had said everything was fine?

His head hurt a little from all the conflicted feelings and he momentarily considered aging up just to spare himself further embarrassment.

Sherlock sat the cup down and took his hand.

“Alright?” he asked low, so only they could hear. John squeezed his hand tightly but nodded. It had been his _choice_ to be little at breakfast, he _wanted_ to be little. And Ella had said that it was important to acknowledge those feelings, that it was important to be honest.

Sherlock smiled at him- the real smile that was like the sun on a cloudy day- and patted their joined hands with his free one.

John released a long breath and decided to go with his gut instinct. Greg was their friend. Sherlock had talked to Greg. Now, instead of being disgusted, Greg was _making them breakfast_. Greg had seen both of them at their lowest moments in their lives. Yet, he was still here. This was a safe space, here. He didn’t have to be afraid to be himself, here.

 

“The feast is ready,” Greg announced suddenly; as he evidently spent the time, they had had their little conversation to heap hearty servings of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and various other goodies onto plates.

When his portion was placed before him, John’s entire face lit up.

Instead of ‘normal’ (boring!) plating, Greg had arranged the food to look like silly smiling face; even with banana-slice eyes and everything.

Just like that, all the worry melted away; instead replaced by a warm, gooey feeling of happiness. This wasn’t only the coolest breakfast ever, it also made him feel accepted in his little space, in a way he couldn’t bring into words. Like Greg had reached out and gave his heart a warm hug.

 

“Daddy, look!” he cheered excitedly, all caution momentarily forgotten, when he turned to his Daddy to share his happiness, pointing at the plate.

Almost immediately, he blushed a deep shade of red.

He had never called Sherlock ‘Daddy’ in front of other people before (most of the time they had been playing, he hadn’t been able to call Sherlock ‘Daddy’ at all, afraid that it would sound baby-ish).

He bit his lip, would Greg think that he was a baby, now? It were two different things; knowing what age-play _was_ and knowing what it _entailed_. Did Daddy tell him all of the details? Even about the (here his heart hammered wildly) accidents?

 

“Wow, would you look at that!”

“I don’t know why you’re acting all surprised; you both know that I’m the master of breakfast food,” Greg chirped in around his own bite. It was the first thing he said since John entered the room, and the little doctor was immensely relived that he was neither drawing attention to the fact that John was little, nor to the fact that this whole ordeal wasn’t usual in the slightest. It helped to keep his mind off the uncomfortable thoughts invading his mind just a second ago.

“So humble,” Sherlock chuckled, but started to dig into his own food nonetheless.

 

The two ‘adults’ at the table engaged in some playful banter that kept John entertained for the remainder of breakfast; their silliness helped him to concentrate on happy stuff instead of dwelling on heavy topics.

There was plenty of time for big John to worry about them, later.

 

When his belly was pleasantly filled and his sides hurt a little from laughing so much, John gathered up all his courage to address Greg directly.

“Thank you,” he mumbled shily, but smiled directly at his friend.

Greg looked momentarily taken aback at being addressed by the little doctor, but a smile spread over his face as well, almost immediately (Greg’s face with its stubble, and hard edges, and gruff expression looked the best when it was soothed into this easy smile; solely reserved for the people he cared about most).

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

_Buddy_.

John’s heart _jumped_ in his chest.

Usually, Greg would call him ‘mate’ or ‘pal’. He had never called him ‘buddy’ before. Meaning it was a thing _exclusively_ for little John, like the pancake-face.

John’s eyes started to prickle.

Greg wasn’t just _humoring_ them. He cared about them genuinely enough to take this seriously; although _he didn’t have to be part of it at all_.

The deep gratitude and affection he felt for his friend at that moment of realization had nothing to do with being more emotional due to his little headspace. He could feel himself aging up yet another bit; that he was almost in the in-between state between big and little.

 

When Greg passed him to make himself another cup of coffee; John reached up instinctively, wrapping his arms tightly around the middle of a very surprised looking DI.

“Thank you,” he whispered again; his voice wavering now, and heavy with emotion. “Thank you for…”

Greg closed his arms around John, patting him on the back.

“Anytime, John.”

 

Greg held him in a warm hug; and the teddy was stuffed between them; and Daddy’s hand was a reassuring weight on his knee; and John couldn’t remember being happier or safer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap, folks!
> 
> Phew, this took me quite some time. But I'm so proud of it; it's a story-line that has been ghosting around my brain FOREVER.   
> I have so much more ideas in store, now that Greg's part of their little age-play dynamic, too. I just love writing Greg, he strikes me as a really fun character, so I wanted to make him really fun. <3
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos and bookmarks however your heart desires. I'm excited to hear your feedback <3 Take care, y'all!!! :3

**Author's Note:**

> This. Is. LONG!
> 
> He. First multi-chapter one, y'all. This is by far the longest installment I've written yet, this is why it took me ages to finish it. But I LOVE it, and I hope, you love it, too <3


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